Cantero de Ti
by raven22372
Summary: More or less a prequel to Beat the Barman can also be found here . Neil Fletcher finds himself in strange situation and remembers an even stranger one...


**Cantero de Ti**

**Fandom:** Australia (directed by Baz Luhrman)  
**Pairing:** Neil Fletcher/The Drover  
**Rating:** K  
**Length:** About 4.000 words  
**Warning:** Pretty much AU. I´m afraid I got a little distracted...  
**Summary:** More or less a prequel to **Beat the Barman**. Neil Fletcher finds himself in strange situation and remembers an even stranger one...

One million thanks to supercalifragilistic, brave **bluegerl**, who patiently endured my endless Whys, Hows and But(?)s. Again, I´m so sorry, I finally ignored any good advices and left most things the way they were. Blame my laziness for all mistakes and confusions, please. Perhaps I can make up for it by bringing you a scruffy, bulky (but educated) jackaroo from magical Oz? :)

**Three things you might like to skip:**

**1. Cantero de Ti**, a song played in the movie (that can also be found on the original score), is a modern aria that has its roots in a record of "Ave Maria" sung by Australian opera singer Nellie Melba. I thought that, if the movie can pretend it´s a "classical" piece of music, I can do so, too. ;) It´s not quite my favourite song and I must say it wasn´t my first choice, but it seemed to fit best. I´d say if there´s anybody in the world who feels fond of this fic – just feel free to insert any piece of music you like. :)

2. There´s a huge glossary at the end of the fic. I was debating to put it at the start, but then it might not be very reader-friendly to make you work through a heap of stuff you a) either already know or b) are not interested in at all. So, in case, it comes after the text.

3. I´d like to point out that many statements in this text come right out of Neil Fletcher´s head and do not mirror my own opinion (especially regarding gender issues and the use of derogative terms for indigenous Australians).

Personal note: **Shellac records** were indeed fragile little bastards. When I was a kid a friend of mine showed me the collection of her grand parents and guess what happened...

**Cantero de Ti**

The house was quiet, so quiet he felt tempted to dampen his steps as he walked downstairs. There was neither the clinking sound of exquisite cutlery coming from the dining room nor the usual background murmur of familiar voices, generally overlain by the lady of the house complaining about the attendants; a very special cadence that made the idea of murder by household items look quite tempting. It was obvious the whole family had flown. The Carney Estate lay in Sunday silence.

It was moments such as this when Neil Fletcher felt like a thief, regardless of the fact that soon he would become Catherine Carney´s lawfully wedded husband, and therefore was unquestionably entitled to be here. The notion of the empty house observing him with its own secret eyes was something he could never get entirely rid of. Perhaps it was because he _was_ a thief, he told himself. One who turned his back to the silverware and went for the whole property instead. But then, life was no one-sided blade, was it? King Carney took advantage of him and one day, when his time had come, _he_ would take advantage of Carney and _that´s the way it goes, right?_

Most likely they had gone to church. Sunday forenoon, the whole family, representatives of Darwin´s new wealth. Having a little chat with the neighbours – only those _worthy_, of course – donating a little something for the mission, showing the ladies´ new collection of summer hats, straight from the lawns of Ascot. Doubtless it would take them a while to get back. Other people went to join the holy Mass, the Carneys went to hold court.

He roamed the large, empty suites by now freed from everyday´s bustle. The wet season had just started and the dampness of constant rainfalls hang already in the warm air; though compared to the dark, overheated shacks with their tin roofs that made a big part of the town, the mansion was a pleasantly tempered summerhouse. The King had spared no expenses and fitted his refuge with all the modern conveniences, combined with classical elements, each of them brought the long, arduous way from the Old World. Tasteful furniture from overseas, paintings from European artists, names equally unknown and unimportant. Carney was not interested in the whose and from wheres as long as it looked expensive enough to take on with the British aristocracy. They never wasted an opportunity to let him know – in a very subtle way – that in their eyes he was nothing but an upstart. The first time Fletcher had succeded in getting an invitation to the Carney residence, his prime notion had been _this will be_ _mine_. Now, after one week spent in desert and dust, the thought that crept up on him at the sight of such a waste of money was _Who the hell´s gonna need all that bloody stuff?_

The next room was the ladies´s parlour. Generally it was reserved for Mrs. Carney and her daughter who used to receive their guests in there. Actually the interior was kept in various tones of decent pastel shades, though in the bright sunlight, hardly dimmed by the curtains, his first impression was white. White frills and white fringes, neatly arranged on white furnishings, a place for everything and everything in its place. The only thing that was clearly _not_ in its place was Neil Fletcher, the ruthless intruder. He did not fit there, in his raddled cotton shirt with the scum around the collar, the puce mud stains up to his thighs and the _other_ stains... and _bloody hell, mate, get yourself some fresh underwear_.

The gramophone. Mrs. Carney had insisted on one and the King had sent for it. It was his wife´s pride and joy, something that secured her the undivided awe of the town´s society ladies. Once Fletcher had witnessed her sacking a hapless room maid who had accidently smashed one of the shellac records. Since that day everybody except the family members steered clear of the mischievous device.

However, right now Mrs. Carney was scaring no-one else but the altar boys. Fletcher ran one thumb across the funnel. The metal felt smooth and warm to the touch. He followed the concave rounding inside, gently surprised by the silky tangency. _No need to be greedy, Neil. I´ll be around for a while._

He realized that his eyes had quietly closed and he broke the contact. One week. One week in the outback, in the company of sand and rocks, starting each day under the risk of finding a snake in his boot. One week in the Never-never, including surprise rainfalls, billabongs with crocs and randomly appearing boongs, who surely would not have had anything against spearing him from ambush.

And the Drover.

It had not seemed to be the best idea from the start. Poisoning a couple of Sarah Ashley´s cows, fine; chasing away the horses, very well – but not so close to Faraway Downs. A farm house was another size than a cattle station and he, Fletcher, must have been driven by a death wish to leave the scheduling to Bull – everybody knew the man read with his pointer following the lines. No wonder they were caught before one could even say 'bugger'. Or better, _he_ was caught, as he had tried to fix things at the very last minute. When Carney said 'causing them Faraway Down guys some trouble' one was well-advised to put up everything in one´s power to return with positive news, _you´re with me mate_?

Most likely he could be glad it had been the Drover who had got his hands on him first, instead of Magarri or Bandy, whom he used to call the _fat ugly boong woman_, because it was easier than admitting that he was secretly afraid of her. The Drover was known for wielding a punch that could fell a Brahman calf, yet he did not tend to exceeded outbursts of violence, even not towards a person who had just substantially aggravated his life. There were scarier things to face than being dragged across the foreplace by the collar (Lady Sarah Ashley stepping onto the porch in order to find out what the noise was about, for example). If only he had known.

The decision had been quickly made: Drover was to escort his captive to Darwin where he would press charge against King Carney and his helper. Three months ago the chances to arraign Carney had been virtually zero, though meanwhile one or two things had changed. Everybody took it for a good idea – not least Fletcher who clearly preferred a three-day car ride to being stuck with Lady Sarah – until they found out somebody had slit all four tyres – _probably also Bull, the bloody drongo_. So the three-day car drive turned into a seven-day horse ride. And that was the beginning.

There had been an offer, first made out of sheer boredom, and the vague prospect to use it as a chance to escape. An offer a man did not make, at least not if he put any value to be considered a man. An offer so shocking it was practically unthinkable the virtuous Drover could do anything else other than plainly reject it.

It turned out he could.

What followed was one of the most mortifying conversations Fletcher ever had. Not that he had talked very much. He did not withdraw his offer either, at least insofar his damaged pride did not abandon him. Discovering that it was beyond his power to feign approval he did not really feel was a crushing blow for him. Caught between the crag and the chasm he just froze, helpless and unable to take any step in any direction whatever.

And as for the Drover – he had dropped the subject. Just like that. As if this was _not_ the chance of his lifetime to finally deal with the opponent who had threatened his and Sarah´s existence since she had first left the plane. As if he could _not_ have got anything he wanted, be it by agreement or physical violence; there, smack bang in the middle of nowhere, where no judge could ever condemn him.

He just dropped it.

Squeezed lids could not hold back the tears that seared his eyes. They burnt like shame, burnt like the only explanation the Drover had casually offered: _I´d rather like it when it´s fun for both. _And then he had stepped back and turned to the necessities of camp-life, leaving behind a broken picture of misery that was once Neil Fletcher.

A tear hit the turntable of the gramophone. Memories came floating back and all he could do was to dig his fingers into the varnished wood and brace himself against the flood. The mornings when he awoke tired and dazed, because a silent crying fit by night was a terribly exhausting business. The Drover´s steady ease, as if nothing had ever happened. His gentle way to deal with the horses, a scrutinizing side glance: _You alright, mate?_

He had left his prisoner alone, never an allusion, never breaching his private sphere. And then the vast land and the emptiness had done their work. If there was something in the world such as healing it must feel like that.

Two days later the offer had been renewed. And then the second part of their journey began.

He wiped the salty drop off the wood, _god forbid it might leave a stain,_ and picked a record. The shellac slid willingly out of its sleeve and into his hand, surprisingly heavy. The title did not convey anything to him (though that was no measure; up here in the Top End they did not get much music that could not be played on a tea chest bass).Cantero de Ti. 'I sing to you.' Something Italian, as Catherine had explained when the record was delivered. It was always Catherine who treasured such information. Catherine who was soon to become his loving wife.

_His loving wife and shouldn´t he be glad to get the word of consent from her considered to be the best match in all Darwin? What else – what better – could a man hope for in this part of the world?_

_Small, encouraging words, tiny gestures, a slow, gentle start. Fear of more than physical pain. If it was bad, he could pull through it with clenched teeth, as always. If it was good it would be taken from him, leaving a gap that could never be filled again – as always._

Carefully he put on the record and turned the crank. An atmospheric crackle, not unlike the white noise from Captain Dutton´s radio set, came rustling through the funnel. And then, the first tentative sounds of a piano, frail as a spinning thread.

_Frail as a brush of lips against flesh. Kisses from a man who made sure to keep his hands down, where he, Fletcher could see them, in order to make him feel... safe. It was so unlike how he had figured it would be. A rough violating encounter of private parts, a quick ruthless humiliation, that was what he had expected, that was what he deserved, even according to himself. A stain on his self-esteem to cover all the other stains, those that could never been washed away. A bit of blood perhaps, one could always get along with blood. Absorbing the pain, absorbing the bitterness and let it sink to the place inside where it could dry and ferment and grow the rage he needed to live on. In a certain way it would have been far easier that way._

He settled down on a light blue chaise-longue, regardless of raddled fabric, scum and mud, not to speak of his dusty boots – _bad day for the sofa – _and did what he had never done before, not really: he listened to the music.

Even for a man who spent plenty of time out of town the world was not mute. Of course there _was_ music; men were singing in bars or around the campfire, and sometimes someone brought a banjo or a harmonica. And then of course there was the organ in the church and the mission choir. Though_ real_ music, music that served no other purpose than its own, was a hen parlour thing; something the ladies were concerned with and if you valued domestic peace, you let them have their way. Jokes about who had stepped onto the cat´s tail during a Nellie Melba evening were a severe trespass that could mean the expulsion from the dinner table. However, it was an occupation leading nowhere, too useless for a busy man to waste his time on.

Dust particles were flickering their way through the sunlight. The piano chords skipped over the interior, randomly tipping the surfaces, laces, satin, porcelain. They built a carpet for the voice, as it rose and fell, a solid base, to keep the singer from faltering. _Poofter stuff_, he thought, _is that what happened to people who have done – that?_ Though he stayed where he was, all senses wide awake, listening to words he did not understand.

_Words he had forgotten. (No. it´s all right, it feels good) and would surely never remember ... (yesyesyesplease). It was a mystery to him why the bloody hell the Drover insisted on doing it that way, on taking so many efforts where it had been easy to just take what he was offered. Perhaps he had felt the void in the personality of the man who had given himself in his hands so uncompromisingly, an empty space to slip in and apply a few levers and – possibly cause a change. Which he might have still failed at, because it was Fletcher who knew all the levers one could trigger and in general he was the one to manipulate. But the Drover did not seem to be interested in manipulating anybody. He just did what he did, acted the way he was, and his prisoner found himself doing everything to enchant the man, to make the guard fond of the captive. _

He realized that he had left the rumpled sofa and resumed his wandering. The next room was Catherine´s dressing room and this time 'white' was more than a personal perception. Fluffy blankets, silk laces and immaculate coverlets – he figured that a single touch of his hand would make the mirror corrode. Especially _his_ hand.

That mirror. It was head-high, with folding doors, for now closed. Opening it slightly he caught a glimpse of his own face, too pale and, for this surrounding, definitely too dirty. He darted himself a smile, a cheeky lopsided smirk, though for an incomprehensible reason it became the anxious expression of a little boy who had got a call, yet was not sure whether there was a reward or a beating waiting for him. It was not right, it was a twisted element in a perfect place, with all the precious furniture and accessories screaming it at him. He did not belong there, neither in the outback nor in the gentry´s salons. Maybe, with his light skin and ginger hair, looking as if he was only one generation away from an Dublin convict who had been deported for stealing the copper from the rooftops, he did not even belong in the country. _Perhaps nobody of us does_ the treacherous little voice from the darkness behind the eyes whispered. _The only people belonging here are the boongs._

In front of the mirror stood a vanity, covered with a doily and decorated with more toiletries than they had in the Chinese brothels down by the docks. It was not that he had ever spent much money there – though he made sure people saw him _enter_ such an establishment. Regarding this the marriage arrangement with Catherine was quite a relief. However, this was the most _female_ place he had ever been, and he wondered if this had anything to do with the latest... events. Was it right what they said, that letting another man do... things... to you made you less manly? That it made you – a girl?

He did not feel like a girl. Actually he did not feel different at all. Jaded maybe and less angry, for all his anger had stayed in the desert, absorbed by rock and sand and the Drover. He ran his eyes over the countless vials. _Should he not feel the urge to try them?_

_Now, that things happened the way they did – and don´t pretend it wasn´t you who finally initiated them, for there is a limit to what extent you can lie to yourself – what are you? And how will you carry on? Going ahead with your plans, marry rich, swallow your pride and swallow King Carney´s careless offences, day by day? You are recently good in swallowing, aren´t you?_

Or what else? What _did_ men do after they had become like that?

_You haven´t 'become like that'. You just did what you wanted to do all the bloody time. It´s all part of the gigantic fake you turned yourself into. Because pride´s not power and if you can´t find the first in the mirror anymore you better have at least the latter to hang on to, right?_

Right. It would have just been nice to be given a direction or something. A kind of emergency schedule, telling what to do if one had to face the fact that all the old levers were broken and nobody had taken the effort to attach any new. Should he pretend the last week had not happened, hoping the Drover would do the same? Or was it futile, would the change become inevitably visible? More, now the die was cast, was he not _expected_ to act in a sort of, well, effeminate way? Was he supposed to speak in a cutesy way and make priggish puns, like this guy the British newspapers were reporting on, Noel whatshisbloodyname, Coward?

Coward. Perhaps that was the right word for him.

There was the faintest sound of a key clicking in the lock downstairs. Quickly, he was at the gramophone, the needle screeching across the shellac as he lifted the needle arm, _now where the hell is the bloody sleeve? _And then the record hit the edge of the turntable and this was the end of Cantero de Ti.

He was on his knees, trying to pick up the shards, put them together, shove them under the carpet, all at once. _Something looking so solid, how can it break so easily?_ A sliver slit his thumb and, softly cursing, he sucked at the cut because although it was such a tiny wound it was _not entirely painless but that was alright, because it gave him the opportunity to say things like No no, it´s good, and, No worries, I´m fine. And the Drover had laughed in his own bewildered, breathless way and said 'Crikey, aren´t you a ripper bloke?' and then it WAS good. Drying sweat cooled his skin in the warm spicy night air; the unaccustomed position had__made him giggle like a fifteen year old – two bloody drongos, that´s what we look like – and the Drover was close, closer than a common version of the old in-and-out would have required; so close like you only got when you really cared._

And there was Catherine in the doorframe, clad in her Sunday dress. At the sight of her fiancé kneeling on the carpet the freckles on her cheeks gathered to merry little islands.

"Good Gracious, Neil!" He had never noticed how easily her features were split by an open, careless laugh,"That will be the _apocalypse_!"

She slid down next to him. He watched her brushing together the pieces, dumbstruck. _Come on, mate! Where´s your charm? Tell her a joke or something!_ But his mind refused to pour out anything, as frozen as it was back then beside a campfire, one thousand years ago.

"Hold this, please," She handed him the sleeve and indicated to him to keep it open. Skilfully she shovelled back the pieces – _I wonder how often she did that before,_ and hid it under a pile of records on the shelf.

"Done!" She beamed cheerfully. "No worries. In a couple of days I´ll find an opportunity to bring it in. It´ll look as if it was just crushed under the weight of the others."

He nodded slowly, ignoring the urging nudges of his conscience. _Come on, you could at least bloody thank her_. She gave him an inquiring look.

"Neil? You´re alright?" Her gaze was unmistakeably worried. "They say you´ve just returned last night, haven´t you? You must be terribly exhausted "

"Yeah," he brought himself to say, drawling the words from somewhere. "Yeah, I think I am."

"Did my father send you out again? Was it about the cattle station? You´ve been away for so long!"

"Yeah, it was about... the cattle station." _You wouldn´t believe how long._

She smiled at him, encouragingly, unobtrusively.

"Don´t worry, I´ll leave you alone. But you must tell me later. It´s so seldom I get anything else to hear than the local tongue-wagging."

He managed to smile back. "Sure. Gonna tell you... later." The freckles happily redeployed to sunny islands of delight.

_She will wither beside you_, the traitor voice whispered. _The life she´s yearning for, you will defraud her of it, the same way her stiff, lofty, arrogant family does. How many more bloody secrets are you gonna hide?_

"Cath," he said, mouth so dry his tongue felt like cotton wool. "Can I have a word with you, please?"

**Glossary:**

**Bull**: The redneck in the movie who was unlucky enough to constantly challenge the Drover and surely ended up with a bad concussion.

**Bandy**: The second Aboriginal woman (apart from Daisy) who works on Faraway Downs.

**Boongs**: Derogative Aussie term for indigenous people

**Drongo**: Aussie slang for idiot

**Goolaj, Magarri**: Aboriginal hands on Faraway Downs

**Nellie Melba**: Famous Australian opera singer (1861 – 1931). Yes, she´s the one Peach Melba is called after. ;)

**Noel Coward**: British writer, composer, singer and actor (1899 – 1973)

**Poofter**: Derogative Aussie term for homosexual

**Ripper**: Aussie slang for great, gorgeous

**Top End**: The Northern Territory

**Tea Chest Bass**: Improvised musical instrument.


End file.
